Creative Writing: Empire Island

They beckoned to him, the trees. Their knotted arms rose ever upwards, stretching towards the sky as if impersonating conductors. An orchestra of birdsong – unlike any other, broke out from within the thicket, wavering like the flame from Alastair’s lantern. His hair combed into a neat part; small, vexed mouth, and pale skin revealed his habit of remaining indoors. A calm young boy; but his drawn features and half lidded eyes bore the stamp of unutterable weariness, and a disgruntled expression hovered round his mouth. However, his eyelids stood as if in shock, legs moving in response. Lifting after another, his thick rimmed glasses nodding as he broke into a sprint, approving of his find.
Between the leaves lay an ebony pocket watch, devoid

of lustre of any kind. Alastair grasped it quickly, smoothing it with his fingers. A brooding atmosphere hung over the forest, soaking the groves in wispy mists, but Alastair seemed not to care. Having found his most prized possession pleased him, although, he could not vanquish the sudden feeling rising within him. His blood pulsing through his body quicker than he ever thought, and as if sensing his uneasiness, the ravens that frolicked between the boughs laden with putrescent leaves sang – or rather screamed, intertwining with the despondent melody that weaved into the orchard, a ghastly symphony of song.
The melody played with his ears, prodding at his eardrums, expecting a response, although, his ears had become calloused to the sounds of the forest, or rather to the remorseful weeping of the harp.

Nevertheless, Alastair sought for the source causing the disturbances, rekindling his lantern before taking a step forward. The forest had become more twisted, deteriorating sharply, gagging as if the melody was a toxin. And boles grew dark, their eyes obscured by the masses of wrinkles surrounding them, as if in disgust or perhaps in distress, their thick sap oozing from beneath their skin. And amongst their branches, there perched crows; swooping down upon seeing Alastair, their parched cries mocking

him.
Suddenly a stream emerged within the gloomy thicket, it wound its way through the grove.

Whispering and murmuring, it sprung over the limestone rocks in its way. Pebbles whisked about in the under wash like corpses on the battle field, their blood tainting the water a murky brown. Alastair approached cautiously, sighting a young girl playing a harp on an island surrounded by the water, a friend that had once been his. Feeling the cold water biting at his skin, he winced, his shoes overflowing with the tears of the stream. Upon arriving on the island, he was greeted by the young girl. Her palm outstretched and a gentle smile carved onto her face, her brunette locks dangled past her bosom and her dress hung like one on a coat hanger. He held her hand in his and smiled; a rare sight. Arabella? He thought, surely this had to be

true.
She motioned him towards her harp; consisting of forty-six strings, one seeming to be absent and its ebony frame tarnished by the rain. She insisted for him to play, speaking to him, although he could not hear. Pressured, Alastair sat before the harp, plucking at the strings, the same melancholic melody consuming the forest. The trees writhed in agony, their arms flailing and the ravens wailing. She gazed at the forest surrounding her, it seemed to cower in terror at the sight of her; her limbs bedecked with reds and blues, coiling her legs, a traumatic memory for Alastair. The sound of a sickening snap broke the melody of death, like that of legs, twisting until they snapped in their joints. Alastair whimpered upon realising the string had become separated, and the feeling he could not vanquish grew fierce, choking him. Denial perhaps?
Afraid of Arabella’s thoughts, he loped into the stream and into the forest, disregarding her cries of: “Please Alastair, accept”. His face drenched with tears, his features drawn into a frown, and red like her blood, which poured forth from her mouth that day. Alastair ran although his legs ached, recalling his distraught as she died within his arms. The trees convulsed, as if expressing his emotions. He recalled the delight that spread across her face that day, giving her pocket watch as a token of acceptance, and the joy that pulsed through his body, vowing to cherish acceptance. His weeping grew louder, her pocket watch clung to the threads of his coat, dropping among a pile of leaves. Her death had impacted him greatly, the ravens once more mocking his cowardice, abandoning acceptance; the value he cherished most. He stopped, panting and swallowing the air in hiccups as he wiped the tears from his face. He lifted his head and gazed upon the trees, they beckoned to him.